by Luke Bencie
“Child, your beauty could make the Virgin Mary cry!”
Mariana smiles and drops her head like an embarrassed schoolgirl, while I try to figure out what the fuck he means—or if Mariana even knows.
Don Pedro, still grasping Mariana’s waist with both hands, turns to me next and says, “Señor Ward, I am pleased to meet you and welcome you as my guest.”
“Señor, it is an honor to be in your presence, particularly here at your lovely home,” I reply dutifully.
“Thank you, but it is the people’s home, Señor Ward. I am merely a humble servant to their wishes for a better life. They have given me the honored privilege to serve them and represent their best interests.”
What a crock of shit! This guy has designed, built, and lived in the “people’s home” for over a decade. Despite what the people really want. And Don Pedro has no intention of turning over the keys to the castle anytime soon.
That said, I give him a few points for the bullshit line, though he probably picked that one up from one of his fellow leaders.
I attempt to outdo him at creating a steaming pile of bullshit.
“You are a man of great humility, El Presidente. I admire your selflessness in putting your fellow countrymen first. That is rare trait found only in the greatest leaders throughout history.”
He apparently appreciates the compliment and invites us inside. As we walk through the lion-headed front door, his arm remains around Mariana’s waist. I have to smile at the irony of it all. Here I am, an American capitalist welcomed by a corrupt socialist dictator—Latin American politics at its finest.
After a brief tour of the ostentatious mansion, whose interior is loosely designed after the Palais Versailles, we are led into the presidential dining room for lunch. It is all formality: 22-karat gold utensils, flowers in vintage crystal vases, white-gloved wait staff, and an impressive seating arrangement where each of our names is etched into a small rectangular glass block in front of our place setting. A polished sommelier, dressed in a navy-blue Tom Ford suit that must have cost $7,500, pours a $500 bottle of Opus One red into each of our glasses.
Yes, Don Pedro would be a golden goose of a client to any consultant of my ilk.
Don Pedro, now seated at the head of the long table, which could easily accommodate twenty guests, raises his glass in what can either be considered a toast or a prayer.
“My friends, may we give thanks to God for the opportunity of all of us gathering here today. Every meal shared with guests is a blessing that should not be discounted. May this bountiful lunch enrich us to make wise decisions, in order to benefit the people of this great nation.”
“Hear, hear!” Rodrigo approves.
“Hear, hear,” Mariana and I respond.
Don Pedro turns and nods to an older gentleman with slicked white hair, wearing a black and white tuxedo, who is standing attentively near the wall. This man is obviously the headwaiter. The other servers are wearing white dinner jacket tuxedos. The headwaiter claps his hands rapidly, and his minions scurry like trained mice to serve the food. We begin with a Waldorf salad, which could rival the original version served in New York City, followed by our appetizers: shrimp rojo y verde. Amazing.
After a small martini glass of mint sorbet to cleanse our palates, our main course arrives: filet mignon in red wine sauce with truffle butter and a side of white asparagus.
I mentally tip my hat to Don Pedro. For a man born into poverty who climbed his way up the greasy rungs of his society’s ladder, via political posturing and literal backstabbing, he has evolved into a man with impeccable taste in food.
Don Pedro reminds me of dictators such as a Saddam Hussein or Muammar Gaddafi, who, despite their outward cruelty and murderous reigns, wielded a positive controlling effect over their chaos-infected societies. There is even an international consulting term for this phenomenon. It’s called the Under the Thumb Rule. It states it’s easier to control the masses through fear and repression than with freedom of speech and democratically elected governments. Guys like me make our money by suggesting ways dictators, such as Don Pedro, can increase wealth and power. He is the golden goose and I’m here to catch some eggs.
“Don Pedro, you have graciously agreed to meet with me and allow me to share my ideas on how best to stimulate your country’s economy. Perhaps now is a good time for me to offer my insights and suggestions?”
“By all means, Señor Ward.”
“Thank you, El Presidente. As you well know, moving oil through the region is a lucrative business. So much so that oil-producing countries are reaping the benefits of the industry and using their newly found wealth to allow many of their lower-class citizens to move into the middle class. This has improved the purchasing power of millions, which in turn stimulates the economies of those countries and places them on a more solid footing on the international stage. This in turn leads to increased investment from outsiders, increased revenues from tourism, a stronger currency, improved infrastructure, and enhanced education. In short, the oil producers are becoming richer nations, while the non-producing nations are being left behind.”
“Tell us something we don’t already know, Señor Ward,” says an unimpressed Don Pedro.
“Well, sir, the way I see it, the only real non-oil producing country that seems to be benefiting from this phenomenon is Panama. Because of the canal, they can act as a hub for shipping, and thus Panama is the only country collecting massive taxes and enjoying a cash surplus.”
“Again, señor, this is all common knowledge,” says Don Pedro.
“Yes, El Presidente. But what if you could steal some of that business away from Panama?”
“Go on.”
“I have connections within a neighbor country’s government that are ready to divert shipping and refueling activities to your country—for a moderate fee, of course.”
“Of course,” he affirms.
“The tradeoff would consist of unaccountable oil in return for lower dockage and refueling fees, not to mention a few mutually beneficial agreements pertaining to OAS and U.N. votes. Not only would your economy improve from the increased maritime traffic, but you would also have enough excess oil—hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth, which of course would be off the books—to use at your discretion. It is the ultimate win-win scenario.”
Don Pedro looks at me skeptically, while Mariana and Rodrigo appear to be hanging anxiously on his reply.
After a few seconds, which feel more like minutes, Don Pedro casually takes a sip of his wine, wipes his lips, and then clears his throat to speak.
“Señor Ward, I thank you for your suggestion. You are a very smart man. Perhaps too smart. Now, allow me to give you my thoughts in rebuttal.”
Everyone at the table is quiet, as Don Pedro once again exercises a dramatic pause.
“I grew up in a tiny village twenty miles from this amazing presidential mansion—here, where we have just enjoyed this lavish capitalist lunch. When I was a boy, such a meal would have fed my entire family for a month. Did you know that I did not wear my first pair of shoes until I was thirteen years old? Yet, despite my simple upbringing, I have risen to the highest position of power in my modest country. How do you think I accomplished this?”
“Persistence,” is all I can respond.
“Ha! Persistence is just one of my virtues, Señor Ward. But I achieved my success by following my instincts, which were honed on the streets, and by surrounding myself only with people with whom I can entrust my life. People like Rodrigo, my half-brother here.”
“That is a wise philosophy,” Mariana chimes in.
“Mariana, you silly girl. Do you not know I have been onto your connections with the US government for years? You allow Rodrigo to fondle your body while you attempt to elicit him for intelligence, in hopes that you can go back to your real handlers and get credit for the worthless cables you write up for their masters back at Langley? I did not become the leader of this nation without my own ability to c
ollect intelligence, and I have a feeling that my sources are much more reliable than yours.”
“Don Pedro,” stumbles Mariana, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am simply a consular officer at the US Embassy. I’m afraid your sources have painted me to be someone that I am not.”
“Enough games, señora.”
Don Pedro nods to Rodrigo, who springs from his seat, grabs Mariana’s arms, and pins them behind her back.
“Let go of me!” she screams.
“I’m sorry, Mariana, but I have owed you this for a long time,” Rodrigo says through his teeth.
“Paul, do something!” she implores me.
Don Pedro looks at her and grins in satisfaction.
“Señora, your friend Paul cannot help you. You see, Señor Ward has been in my employ for many years. In fact, we have a business relationship that goes back before you began working for your employer. I know all about your plot to assassinate me. I’m afraid your attempt to recruit him has been, shall we say, unsuccessful?”
Mariana’s eyes open wide as she scowls at me.
“You bastard! Why? Why would you sell out your country for this worthless piece of shit?”
“It’s simple, Mariana,” I reply, “He pays better. Plus, I always know where I stand with a dictator. I can hardly say the same about the American imperialists!”
Mariana spits in my face before Rodrigo lifts her up from under her arms and drags her out of the room.
Don Pedro smiles at me and raises his wine glass. “To you, Paul, for being my most esteemed adviser.”
I use my napkin to wipe the spit off my face.
AMIGO
Location: Don Pedro’s Presidential Balcony
Time: 1830 hours
It has been over an hour since Rodrigo, with assistance from a few of his security staff, dragged Mariana out of the dining room. She put up a good fight, but eventually the sounds of her shouting obscenities in Portuguese disappeared down the corridors.
As the well-trained wait staff clears the table of our delicious lunch, Don Pedro and I are each enjoying a Romeo y Julieta cigar, accompanied with a snifter of Ron del Barrilito—the finest rum known to man—while we stand on the marble balcony overlooking the mansion’s expansive lawn. The manicured grass, trees, and plants remind me of a botanical garden. Exotic animals roam the grounds, like a zoo. It actually resembles Saddam Hussein’s old palace in Baghdad. The setting is incredibly relaxed, and El Presidente and I are reminiscing about old times.
“So, amigo,” Don Pedro begins, puffing on his cigar, “I am surprised it has been a few years since you and I enjoyed cigars like this.”
“Too long,” I agree, “I think the last time we did it was six years ago in Miami. Remember when we picked up those Puerto Rican girls at the Delano Hotel on South Beach? What a crazy night that was!”
“Dios mio! I forgot about that shit. I did so much cocaine off that chica’s culo my head almost exploded. No wonder I stopped hanging out with you!”
“No,” I remind him. “The reason we stopped hanging out was because you got too comfortable moving narcotics through your airport, and the DEA got pissed and limited your personal travel.”
“I know, I know. Damned DEA! Another American agency that has no business in my country. Speaking of business, how is life in the global consulting game? I heard a rumor that Yuri fucked you over in Afghanistan.”
“He did. But that’s between him and me, and I have the situation under control.”
“Amigo,” he says, laughing. “I have known you for a long time. You are an excellent consultant, but a lousy tough guy. May you never have to serve time in a Latin American prison.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you are consultant, not a hit man. I find it funny that the Americans would even consider you as an option to take me out. When Rodrigo informed me of the plan, after your private meeting with him in São Paulo, my first reaction was not one of concern but one of laughter. I mean, really, Marcus, you and I both know that your profession is built upon sand. You’re a middle man, not a killer.”
Yes, you heard right. Don Pedro knows me as Marcus.
“So are you saying that Yuri has nothing to worry about?” I ask in a serious tone.
“Oh, Marcus. I am saying that if you play with fire you could get burned. Yuri is Russian mafia. They are not exactly—how do you say—Boy Scouts.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think, Don Pedro,” I counter.
“I am not challenging your manhood, amigo. You just need to understand you are out of your element. Por ejemplo.”
Don Pedro reaches behind his back, pulls out a silver-plated Glock 17 9-millimeter handgun, and presents it to me.
“Do you know how to use one of these?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“You see that flock of birds about fifty meters away on the lawn?”
“You mean those exotic peacocks?”
“Yes, those exotic peacocks.”
“I’m not going to shoot a fucking peacock!”
“Don’t worry, amigo. I have so many of those damn birds you would be doing me a favor. They shit on everything. Go on, show me you have the accuracy of a killer.”
I take the pistol and with my right arm hold it straight out in front of me. I close my left eye and line one of the peacocks up with the site post on the tip of the barrel. I gently squeeze the trigger. The gun recoils back in my wrist. I miss the colorful bird by a mile, and the annoying sound of squawking peacocks is now everywhere. Don Pedro is beside himself with laughter.
“That was embarrassing, amigo! You want to exact revenge against the Russian mob, but you cannot even kill a stupid bird from fifty meters!”
“Okay, Pedro. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
He suddenly stops laughing and stares at me in anger. Apparently he does not like to be called just Pedro. He sets his snifter of rum down on the thick marble ledge of the balcony and grabs the pistol out of my hand.
Leaning forward over the ledge, he lines up the shot. Using two hands on the weapon and standing with his feet apart, he rolls his shoulders forward a few times, as if to loosen up. He closes his left eye and begins to search out his victim. When he determines which bird it will be, he smiles.
As he readies for the kill, I ever so subtly move next to him on his left side—the side next to his closed eye. While he fixates on his target, I hover my left cufflink over his exposed glass. With my right hand I gently pop open the pearl cap, releasing the clear powder into his drink. The colorless and odorless poison is now in place.
There is a loud crack, as Don Pedro fires the 9mm handgun, which is immediately followed by dull thud.
“Ah ha!” he screams. “A direct hit!”
I look across the lawn and one of the majestic birds is lifeless on the ground. At least it didn’t suffer.
“Fuck me, what a great shot!” I say, complimenting him.
“You see, amigo? That is how you kill. And believe me, it is much harder to kill a trained Russian mobster, who is shooting back at you, than some dumb animal.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I concur.
“Amigo, let me give you some advice. You have made a lot of money over the years. Perhaps it is time you take that small fortune of yours, move to a nice island somewhere, and start a family. You are not getting any younger. Enjoy the rest of your life. Forget about Yuri and just retire already.”
I look Don Pedro directly in the eyes and say, “I think you’re right. As of now, I am officially retired.”
I pick up my glass of rum and hold it up in a toast. Don Pedro reaches down next to him and grabs his snifter filled with the poison.
“To retirement!” I proclaim.
“To retirement!” he repeats.
We each take a long pull of our drinks.
Thank you, my friend,” I say. “I
am going to miss our little chats together.”
Don Pedro smiles and throws his arm—the one still holding the pistol—around my neck. He speaks to me in a fatherly tone.
“Marcus, you saved my life. If you hadn’t told Rodrigo about the US government’s plan to assassinate me, I might already be dead. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“What are friends for?” I respond.
“For your loyalty, amigo, I have made all of the necessary arrangements. I have wired ten million US dollars to your bank account in Switzerland; I have prepared for you a diplomatic passport from my country, and you are booked on the six o’clock flight to Miami tonight in first class. Gracias por todo!”
“De nada,” I respond. “Y muchas gracias por todo.”
NOW YOU SEE ME . . .
Location: Miami Beach
Time: 0715 hours
I am standing on the beach, running shoes and socks in hand, watching the sunrise. I woke up early and decided to go for a run along the sand to break a sweat and clear my head. Despite the time, the beach is already starting to fill up. It is mostly older couples, many New York snowbirds in ridiculous looking—and, worse, matching—track suits and oversized dark sunglasses, out for their morning walks. A heavy-set older Cuban man, wearing nothing but a black thong bathing suit, gaudy gold chain around his neck, walks past me sweeping a metal detector back-and-forth over the sand, looking for trinkets left behind by tourists. I gaze out over the Atlantic Ocean, as the sun begins its daily climb from below the horizon. In my iPod earphones, Phil Collins sings, “I don’t care anymore I don’t care no more!”
At that moment, I ask myself if I still care about anything—or anyone. It’s been two weeks since I boarded Don Pedro’s private jet and headed up to Miami. Normally, I would have immediately changed my identity and boarded another flight for Europe to put as much distance possible between myself from my last consulting engagement. But avoiding my better judgment this time, I’ve opted to hang out in South Beach.
My thoughts linger on Mariana. Where is she? Will she ever forgive me? Will Joe Sparty and his employers seek unmerciful revenge against me for exposing them and placing her in danger? For the first time in a long time, I feel guilt. More than anything, that’s probably why I’ve stayed in Miami. Maybe I want to be caught. Maybe it’s time I stop running and face prison for all my global misconduct? It’s difficult for me to form a clear thought right now.